


Unraveled

by tolakasa



Category: Knitting (Anthropomorfic)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolakasa/pseuds/tolakasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is *so* not my intended purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unraveled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maryling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryling/gifts).



> I'm not exactly sure this is what *anyone* intended when they put this out there, but this lodged in my head and I thought I'd run with it.

You know, it was bad enough when she brought out the cheap-ass acrylics from Wal-Mart.  I get that some people don’t know better, but if you’d ever seen this chick’s collection of hand-dyed cross-stitch fabric, you’d realize: _She knows better_. 

But this was the fucking last straw.

I am a finely crafted, specialized tool.  I am designed for one purpose: _knitting._   That’s why they call me a _knitting needle_ , and not, say, a crochet hook.  (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)  This has been my purpose all the way back to the dawn of human history, right after they invented thread and right before they figured out how to knock together a decent loom.  Okay, so these last few years, I’ve become part of a craft, a fucking _art form_ , rather than something you _had_ to know else you wouldn’t have any socks.  That’s okay.  Crafters are generally nice people.  They respect their tools.

Not like this idiot dilettante.  Why couldn’t I have been bought by some nice prayer shawl ministry?

Seriously, she used my friend, the #9 circular, for three years, again with the shitty Wal-Mart acrylics, before she realized that she’d counted sideways and the damn “afghan” she made could carpet a decent-sized house.  She doesn’t wear sweaters, it’s too warm here for scarves and gloves, and I don’t think she’s capable of matching socks that aren’t white.  You’d think a girl who can cross-stitch the way she does would have better color sense. 

There used to be an old plastic needle here in the drawer with me.  Poor guy.  All by himself, which is bad enough.  Crochet hooks are made for solitude.  We’re not.  We _need_ to have a partner.  Some of us, more than one.  And the poor guy was stuck in a skein of blaze-orange that could make your eyes bleed even in the dark.  I don’t know why the hell she even has that color, except that every now and then she pulls it out and goes outside and ties bows on plants that she doesn’t want the landscaper to cut down.

She wound up giving him to a cat.  For a cat toy.

Now, don’t get me wrong, everybody knows that thread-crafts-people and cat-people have _severe_ overlap.  It was a knitting needle that first said “it’s not cat hair, it’s specialty fiber.”  Probably while trying not to sneeze.  But that doesn’t make a needle, even a battered old plastic one, a _cat toy_.

That left me here with the circular, who is still crying about a: being held together with Scotch tape; b: being used for that atrocity of an afghan, and c: having all the paint worn off the points, and some abandoned double-pointeds, the chatty little bastards.  Double-points _never_ shut up, you know, it’s the problem with quintets instead of duos.  They can’t handle any silence.  But I still had my partner, so we were better off than most of her knitting supplies.  Even with being surrounded by all this crappy acrylic and shoved into one drawer.  The other five are for the cross-stitch stash.  We know where we rate in this house.

But now—she—you don’t—she—

One little prowler.  That’s all it took to ruin my life.  Apparently she’s one of those freaks that pride themselves on making something out of nothing with whatever’s available.

I am a knitting needle, dammit. 

I _resent_ being shoved into someone’s intestines, I don’t _care_ if he was breaking into the house at the time.

I AM NOT A WEAPON.

Somebody buy this girl a baseball bat.  And if you would be so nice as to scrub this—this—this _stuff_ off me, I’d appreciate it.  I’d even work with those damned acrylics without whining.

Well, not much.


End file.
